Timeless

By Gustavo Bondoni

Journalist Marianne Caruso is in Athens on her first investigative piece: finding the reclusive author of a best-selling novel about drug smuggling in the Aegean.  She goes out for a night on the town with a good friend, Karina, who disappears after leaving the club.

Marianne’s journalistic instinct, combined with a re-reading o

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gypsy Shadow Publishing
• Release date: Mar 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781619505889

Gustavo Bondoni

Gustavo Bondoni is an Argentine writer with over two hundred stories published in fourteen countries, in seven languages, and is a winner in the National Space Society's "Return to Luna" Contest and the Marooned Award for Flash Fiction (2008). His latest books are The Malakiad (2018) and Incursion (2017). He has also published two science fiction novels: Outside (2017) and Siege (2016) and an ebook novella entitled Branch. His short fiction is collected in Tenth Orbit and Other Faraway Places (2010) and Virtuoso and Other Stories (2011).

Book preview

Timeless

by

Gustavo Bondoni

All rights reserved

Copyright © June 27, 2018, Gustavo Bondoni

Cover Art Copyright © 2018, Charlotte Holley

Gypsy Shadow Publishing, LLC.

Lockhart, TX

www.gypsyshadow.com

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Gypsy Shadow Publishing, LLC.

ISBN: 978-1-61950-588-9

Published in the United States of America

First eBook Edition: November 9, 2018

Dedication

To Alex, for beta reading awesomeness and for inspiring the editor character.

Chapter 1

Marianne Caruso was convinced the Air Brasil steward was gay. Tall, with at least some black blood in there and absolutely beautiful, but gay. He was much too familiar, much too flamboyant for anything else.

So she did what came naturally. She flirted outrageously and told him just how handsome she thought he was. It was not an issue; the latest global financial crisis was keeping first-class cabins empty enough that no one was in earshot over the drone of the engines. Even the usually packed Sao Paulo/New York run was feeling the crunch.

So the note she received with her after-dinner coffee came as a bit of a surprise.

Meet me by bathroom in back of airplane in half an hour, if you’d like.

She could hear his accent, the incredibly sensual tones of the tropics, even in this tiny sample of his writing. She folded the paper in half and smiled, understanding that the overt homosexuality was either protective coloring or just part of the guy’s pickup routine. If that was the case, it wasn’t really necessary.

So, what to do?

On one hand, she really resented the implication that she would jump at the guy’s invitation, but on the other, she really wanted to. This was the kind of story her friends relied on her to supply—foreign men in exotic places—and it wasn’t as if her relationship with Kyle would ever lead anywhere.

She began to wonder if she looked all right, but caught herself immediately. She had the slip of paper, and that steward didn’t look like the type to choose an easy target—he would come after the ones he liked. Besides, she’d gone straight to the airport from interviewing Sandrino, and she’d looked fantastic for that interview, even if the pants and shirt look weren’t exactly evening-gown glamour.

What the hell, she thought, and undid her seat belt. She made her way toward the back with little difficulty, heart pounding in her ears, stomach trying to climb out of her throat. But she could also feel the heat in her loins, just from imagining the feel of his hands on her body. Her legs, seemingly of their own volition, strained to redouble their pace. She only controlled herself because she refused to look desperate in front of a mere cabin steward.

The restrooms at the rear of the cabin were typical airplane facilities. Two folding doors made of some light grey plastic just in front of the galley. One of the restrooms was occupied, so she pushed the door to the other. It folded neatly inward, and the light came on, but the tiny cubicle inside was empty. She shrugged, paused only to make certain that her dark hair was perfect and there were no bags under her eyes, and turned to look down the aisle, when a hand encircled her waist and she felt soft skin rubbing hers just below her left ear.

I am going to make you very happy you came, the smooth tones of tropical Brazil whispered as the man pushed her into the cubicle. Very happy.

Feeling the ripple of his muscles beneath the uniform as the he maneuvered her in the enclosed space—not too roughly, not overly gently—Marianne was already happy she’d come and was thankful once again for the roar of the turbines. Something told her that this one was going to make her scream more than just a little.

One of his hands pushed the door closed while the other moved from her waist to the nearest breast and began to squeeze. His body pressed against her ass was more than ready to get it on. And by the way she felt, she was sure it wouldn’t take much foreplay to get her ready either.

But when he turned her around and knelt in front of her, she didn’t argue all that much, but pushed her hips forward, trying to get his tongue to go as deep inside her as she could, and thanked every power she could think of that she was living in the twenty-first century.

***

Cynthia had that look in her eye. All right, spill it, she said.

Marianne tried to give her friend an innocent look, but no one was buying it. Cynthia might have been happily married since about a week after she got out of college, but she’d never lost the taste for the other girls’ escapades.

Jennifer, completing the trio, just rolled her eyes. Come on, you always end up telling us in the end, so you might as well just get it over with. What was it, some high-powered executive in Río? The son of some Brazillionaire? Tell us!

Cabin steward.

Jen seemed confused. What, on a yacht?

No, silly, on an airplane.

You mean like a stewardess?

Yeah, but this one was a guy.

I’ve seen them, Cynthia cut in. Thought they were all gay.

Not this one, Marianne replied. All man as far as I could tell. There was no way she was going to cheapen the story by admitting she’d had the same impression in the first place.

This was the part she loved. Both of her friends—open, chubby, blond Jennifer and the severe-looking Cynthia—it was amazing just how much she perpetually looked like the stereotypical image of a librarian just about to get into it with someone causing a particularly loud disturbance between her shelves—were hanging on her every word, just waiting to hear how the jet-setting society journalist would shock them this time.

Marianne knew that the story itself wouldn’t raise any eyebrows, except for the sheer barefaced audacity of screwing in a tiny bathroom with a guy she’d barely met, so she began to get the details straight in her mind. The details were what made her stories compelling to her friends—that, and how she, herself, behaved.

Let’s see, she thought, it was pretty quick, actually. I didn’t give him much time for anything else. He’d been down on me for less than a minute when I pulled him up and pulled him out, and then…

She felt tears welling in her eyes, but ignored them and attempted to move on with her story. This isn’t the time. I was sitting in business class—no first class on Air Brasil. Oh, who am I kidding? It was just another guy who made me cum and who I’ll never see again in my life. There isn’t any way I can make it interesting, is there? We didn’t even use a condom, so now I’ll have to do blood tests until I can sleep easily again. Why can’t I have a real life?

The last thing she saw before burying her head in her hands was the looks on her friends’ faces: the innocent surprise Jennifer could never hide, and the more guarded expression Cynthia used to mask her feelings. Of course, Cyn could never do anything about her eyes, which teared over whenever Marianne cried.

She sobbed into her hands, uncontrollably, for a short moment, watching mascara-stained tears drop onto the napkin on her lap while her friends alternately comforted her and tried to ascertain what was wrong, whether there was anything they could do to help, if she wanted anything.

Marianne shook off their efforts and tried to get herself together. Just tired, I guess, she said. I really shouldn’t go out for a drink after being on airplanes all night.

Cynthia’s look was eloquent. She didn’t buy it, and she wasn’t going to let Marianne wriggle out of it so easily. But, when she spoke, her voice was soft. Come on, girl, you can go six days without sleep, why don’t you tell us what’s going on? I know you don’t think we’re sophisticated enough to understand your life, but give us a chance. Maybe we can help, and even if we can’t, it will feel good to get it off your chest. Trust me. She paused to dab at Marianne’s cheek. Now, what’s wrong?

I don’t know.

Nice try, but I don’t believe that. You aren’t the kind to have existential angst attacks. Now spill it. And don’t look at Jennifer that way, either. She’s with me on this one.

Jennifer nodded her agreement, big blue eyes wide, like a deer in headlights.

Marianne sighed. There isn’t anything wrong with me, she said, holding up a hand to forestall the inevitable protests. Not really anyway. But the thing is that I’ve achieved nearly everything I wanted to do, and I’m still not satisfied. I feel so empty.

So, get married, have kids, Cynthia said.

But not with Kyle, Jennifer interjected.

Marianne gave her a wan smile. Yeah, I’d kind of figured that out for myself, she said. But it’s not just that. Hell, I don’t even know if I want to have kids. Its… She paused again, trying to get the idea together in her head. It’s everything. The job—

But you always said that this is the job you wanted. Flying all over the world to interview celebrities, find out who they really are beneath the superficial beauty. I’ve heard you say that, by showing that idols are, underneath it all, just people, you make millions of people feel better about themselves. What happened to that?

Do you have any idea how lonely that is? I never feel like I’m home. Whenever I’m on the plane I want to be back in New York, and when I’m here, I can’t wait to be gone again. And now that I’m doing what I set out to do, is that it? Do I have to be satisfied with this? Should I aim to be editor, and sit behind a desk? Or maybe I should try to win a prize.

Cynthia rolled her eyes. Both of her friends knew perfectly well what Marianne thought of prizes for journalism. Pure cynicism wrapped in emotions that fooled the populace, but not the judges. So you feel like you’re stuck in a dead-end job? Welcome to the real world. Everyone feels that way sometimes, which is why most people have a life—a real life, not the pale imitation you set up to try to fool us—outside of work. Just saying.

Maybe you need a vacation, Jennifer said.

Marianne gave her a muffled laugh through the tears. Of course. My problem can be solved by getting on a plane and flying somewhere. Now how come I didn’t realize that before?

Don’t be so hard on her, Cynthia cut in. She’s just trying to help.

I know. I know. You two are the only good thing going on in my life right now. I love you guys. It’s just that I get so goddamned frustrated.

Yeah, we can tell, Cynthia replied with that little half-smile that made Marianne want to tear her hair out. Look, you’re tired. Let’s get you home and you can get some rest.

All right.

By the time they got the check and paid for their meals, it was eleven-thirty. Cynthia drove Marianne to her Midtown apartment, and all three of them came up for one last drink. By the time Marianne stopped crying, it was four in the morning, and it was six before her friends left.

They agreed that it was a good thing that the next day was Saturday, but Marianne wasn’t quite so certain. Over the course of the evening one thing had become crystal clear: there was no way she could keep doing what she was doing.

Monday, and the possibility of letting everything go, was still two days away.

Chapter 2

Before accepting this, I’d like to make you an offer, Terrence said, waving the letter around as if it was of no real consequence.

If someone had asked Marianne to guess what Terrence Vaidal did for a living, she would never have guessed. Her stabs in the dark would probably have included security guard or janitor. The folds of fat visible under his shirt would have kept her from guessing at construction work, since she just couldn’t imagine him wielding a jackhammer. Apart from being chubby, well on his way to being bald, and sweating a lot, he never seemed to go out in public dressed in anything other than jeans and a t-shirt.

He wasn’t the type of guy you’d picture sitting behind that desk in that office. The office was a thousand square feet of minimalist good taste suspended thirty stories up in midtown, with floor-to-ceiling glass taking up two of the walls. A couple of framed photos—original prints developed by the best fashion snappers in the world—hung on the walls behind her, and the desk itself seemed to have been designed by an artist in optical illusion. It seemed too light to hold its own weight, much less the assorted piles of paper and magazines on its surface. The carpet was cream-colored, and it must have cost Terrence a fortune to keep it in its spotless condition.

It never occurred to anyone that the man was the editor-in-chief of Update! magazine until he opened his mouth. Only when he spoke did one begin to realize his brilliance. He was equally likely, with little or no provocation, to use his cultured tones to tell the story of formal dress decorations in the seventeenth century or to guess what would be the coming trend in Milan’s next season, or the next internet business model. He would be right much more often than not, and that was probably the reason Update! had gone from a tiny website run by a pair of Manhattan housewives to a must-read print colossus present in every newsstand and most hair salons the world over.

Of course the image they used on the website was a headshot from ten years before—and even then, it was photoshopped to within an inch of its life. It was an open secret in the office that fully three-quarters of the letters to the editor were proposals of marriage. There was an entire cork bulletin board dedicated to the photos that came with these letters—the rule seemed to be that if she was wearing a swimsuit or less, she’d go on the wall.

It was completely inappropriate and demeaning, but it was also a message to the staff. Update! might be aimed at the sophisticated, worldly, professional modern woman, but its readers came from all over the spectrum—and unless the readers were happy, the publication would go nowhere. It was for this very reason that all women who sent a marriage proposal received a handwritten note that explained though Mr. Vaidal was surprised and flattered at the proposal, he was sadly otherwise engaged. The interns who wrote the letters were minor celebrities in the office.

I don’t think I was clear, Marianne replied, hating every second. This would have been hard enough without him being difficult. It’s not open to debate. If you need me to stay on a couple of weeks to train a replacement, that’s fine, but I’m leaving.

Terrence smiled. His brown eyes—no need to photoshop them at all, they were large and intelligent—bored into her. Oh, I know that. I’m actually surprised it didn’t happen sooner. You certainly aren’t cut out for the kind of work I had you doing.

What? Then why did you make me do it?

He shrugged. It wasn’t great for you, but you were brilliant at it. You always manage to give your subjects the perfect balance of glamour and humanity. They always come across as regular people who would be happy to talk to anyone, but who would shine enormously as they did so. His eyes lit up. I’ve met some of these people. Most of them wouldn’t talk to anyone outside their direct circle unless paid or forced to, and the rest would probably be incapable of shining unless they set themselves on fire. Making it believable without lying is a talent not many people have.

"Fair enough, I guess. But I’m leaving now. You’ll have to find someone else to glitterize your celebrities for you."

I’m not actually sure ‘glitterize’ is a word, he replied, shaking his head reprovingly, off on a tangent as always. But that’s not the issue here. Before you go, I’d like you to listen to something.

You just admitted you’ve been cynically using me for the last couple of years despite knowing it was making me miserable. Why should I listen to anything you have to say?

Well, I guess I could argue that when I did that, I was doing my job and keeping the faith to both the owners of the magazine and its readers, but I don’t suppose you give a fuck about that. He paused, letting the profanity sink in. Marianne knew him well enough that she knew he was doing it for effect, but she was also surprised to hear him curse. It just wasn’t his style. So I’ll just say I think I have something you’ll like that will make you forget your doubts about your career.

"Assignments like that don’t come up at Update! Terrence. Maybe Newsweek. Maybe Time, but not here."

He shrugged again, the quivering of his stomach nearly enough to distract her. He did that on purpose, too. Normally, you’d be right. Investigative reporting doesn’t have much room in the fashion world—and the entertainment business has all the paparazzi we’ll ever need. But, every once in a while, the public becomes obsessed with something actually worth looking into.

Such as?

This. He handed her a hardcover book, one she’d been seeing in every bookstore window and on every subway ride for three weeks, the latest fad which seemed to blast through demographic and psychographic lines and appeal to every single woman—and more than a few men—above the age of twelve. The cover was simple enough: light beige with veins of darker brown running through it. Embossed along the top in blood red lettering was the title, Timeless.

Marianne took the book, dismissed it with a single look and turned back to the editor. I think you really need to have something better than this. It’s just another sappy love story. I’ve seen a hundred articles on this one. She took on her news-caster’s voice. "Timeless appeals to romantics of all ages because it takes us back to a simpler time—a time of love as the final objective, pure as driven snow, defying the prurient outside world as it overcomes the obstacles of modern crime. Please, Terrence, it’s been beaten to the ground." She stood to leave.

Of course it has. That’s not the point at all. We don’t do literary criticism here—and we already did our little piece on why girlies of all ages enjoy that piece of crap. But I got a tip.

Marianne sat. Terrence almost never gave much credence to tips, but when he did, it was always a blockbuster.

He smiled at her, smug bastard, and continued. They told me that it would be worth our while to talk to the author.

Benedetto da Norcia, she saw. Italian, I presume.

I have no way of knowing, but probably not. It’s a pseudonym, and no one knows who, exactly, the author really is. Da Norcia was actually a saint who lived in the sixth century.

It’s probably written by James Patterson, except he didn’t want his name on this kind of garbage.

Very funny. Well, that’s the assignment I have for you. I need you to track down the author of this book and bring me an interview, or a life story or something interesting. There’s supposed to be much more going on here than meets the eye, but no one wants to tell me exactly what it is. The only thing I know for sure is that you’ll probably have to go to Greece at some point. After you’ve done that, I’ll accept your resignation if you still want to leave.

How does he know about Greece? She thought. She’d always had a bit of an obsession for both Greek culture and Greek beaches—but how Terrence knew about that in order to bait her with it was beyond her. She’d probably just made some innocent comment in passing at some point, and he’d filed it away, analyzed it and kept the information handy for a time when he needed to ambush her.

Why Greece?

Well, no one at Miller & White is willing to talk about the author, and all their press releases say is that he’s the new benchmark of romantic love, but I’ve found that a book that matches the description almost exactly was published in Athens three years ago—now, unless it’s a different book, I’d say it was written by a Greek.

He was probably right. Marianne didn’t know all that much about the publishing industry, but a major New York publisher like Miller & White was